Hot Cocoa
by fenrirs
Summary: "I'm not entirely used to this – this feeling of tiredness yet. I can't hear your voice any more, either. I thought you might have been praying to me. I came to see if you were." Destiel fluff.


Dean awoke late one night to find Castiel standing over him, watching.

"Son of a bitch!"

"No, Dean – just me, I'm afraid."

"What do you want, Cas?" he said, irritated, sitting up and rubbing his face. "Don't do that, it's not—It's not _normal_."

"Sorry, Dean," said Castiel. He stood back a little, and Dean regarded him with suspicion. "I'm not entirely used to this – this feeling of tiredness yet. I can't hear your voice any more, either. I thought you might have been praying to me. I came to see if you were."

"Uh, Cas, no offense, but when I'm sleeping," he jerked his head towards his memory foam mattress, "you can assume I'm _not_ thinking about you." It wasn't strictly true, but he didn't need to encourage this sort of behaviour.

"Oh," said Castiel, thoughtfully. "That's disappointing."

"Excuse me?"

"There was... another thing."

"Out with it, angel. I need my beauty sleep."

Castiel's brow furrowed. "You do understand that I am no longer an angel?"

"_Yes_! It was—Never mind. What's bothering you?"

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and he could see that Castiel looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked worn. There were still scars and bruises from the time he'd spent alone, trying to navigate his new existence without the help of Dean or Sam, and he still hadn't quite got the hang of it. Sleep frightened him, he said. He did not enjoy the visions that came to him at night.

"I feel... strange. My body is... shivering. I don't like it, Dean. Is this some sort of organ failure?"

Dean tried to suppress a chuckle. He looked at Cas, standing by the bed wearing nothing but one of his own old t-shirts (Led Zeppelin Tour '77; the irony had been lost on Cas) and a pair of boxer shorts, clutching his elbows and trying not to shiver.

"You cold, Cas?"

"I think I might be," Castiel responded seriously. "It's very intense. Dean, I don't want to frighten you, but I think I might be dying."

Dean gave a snort of laughter. "Of course you're not dying, you—C'mere." He moved over on the bed and pulled the cover back. Then, on impulse, he patted the sheet seductively, raising an eyebrow. Castiel tilted his head, and then did as he had been prompted, sliding in beside him. Close to, Dean could feel him trembling. "Your own bed not warm enough?"

"I put the blankets into the laundry."

"Oh." Dean blinked, awake now. "That was, uh – I won't lie to you, Cas, that was not smart. Didn't you think you might need them?"

"I've never needed them before."

"Right. Seeing as how you woke me and everything – thanks, by the way – I'll make you some hot cocoa. Warm you right up."

"I don't know what that is," said Castiel.

"Doesn't matter," said Dean. "Everyone – and I do mean everyone – loves hot cocoa, so you just sit right there and don't move your little angel butt and I'll be right back."

"But Dean, I'm no longer—"

"I hear ya!" he said, shutting the door.

He returned with a steaming mug of the stuff, marshmallows floating on the top. They always kept the kitchen well-stocked these days; it was one benefit, at least, of having a permanent home. He took it to Castiel, still sitting with his shoulders hunched and the blanket bunched around him.

"Here. Be careful, it's hot."

Castiel extended his arms from beyond the blanket's protection and took the mug from him. "Thank you. I think I've seen something like this before."

"Ain't that incredible." He was back on his own side now, and hoping Castiel would drink it quickly and then go to sleep.

He raised the mug to his lips and took a sip, eyebrows knitting together as he swallowed. "It's hot!" he gasped, turning to Dean with a look of betrayal on his face.

"I told you, you—You got melted marshmallow on your nose, Cas." Castiel tilted his head. "Come here, you stupid..." Dean leant towards him, and Castiel looked so confused he couldn't help but smile, and he kissed him on the nose. "There. Gone now."

And then Castiel kissed him back. His lips were warm and tasted sweet, and Dean, shocked though he was, did not pull away. Castiel's tongue slipped into his mouth, gentle and curious, and Dean couldn't help but reciprocate. When they finally did separate, Dean's face was flushed, more with embarrassment than anything else. Castiel's was not.

"Uh—Um—Where—How did you learn that, Cas?" The end of the sentence came out a squeak.

"It doesn't matter." Castiel smiled down into the mug he was holding. Dean knew that smile – it meant he was pleased with himself. Stupid, smug ex-angel.

"Well, I guess that's one way to warm up." He cleared his throat.

"It is, from what I gather." Castiel looked at him again. "Dean, let me be honest with you. I do not believe that you need beauty sleep."

"That is so corny."

"You're smiling."

"You're damn right I am."

In the morning, they awoke intertwined. Beneath his head, Dean could hear Cas' heart beating, and feel the rise and fall of his chest, and he wondered if maybe Castiel had known that he wouldn't be able to sleep in a bed without blankets.


End file.
